


this fic probably refers to adam sandler more than you're comfortable with

by Elendraug



Series: "I'm basically fucking him." [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Artificial Intelligence, Divergent Timelines, Explicit and Constant Consent, Face-Sitting, Frot, Homestuck Kink Meme, Illustrated, M/M, Oral Sex, Robots, Sex Positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:18:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elendraug/pseuds/Elendraug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I feel like the Pac-Man joke has to involve anal beads somehow. Right?” </p>
<p>“Anal beads are hardly a joke, Dirk.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	this fic probably refers to adam sandler more than you're comfortable with

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cthchewy (pyrrhic_victoly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhic_victoly/gifts), [FreakyHumanShit (Maim)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maim/gifts).



> For this [kinkmeme request](http://homesmut.dreamwidth.org/40628.html?thread=47340212#cmt47340212):
>
>>   
> _**Dirk/android!Hal, face-sitting**_  
>    _Li'l Hal is glasses. All he ever does is sit on Dirk's face. Not cool, damn it. He wants a body of his own._  
>    _Li'l Hal is an android. First thing he does to test out his new body? Sit on Dirk's face. For the irony. (Ok, also for the sex.)_  
> 
> 
>   
>  I missed nationARday by like a day, damn. pretend this was finished on 4/22 

The tornadic green of LOTAK’s sky casts a very different light upon Dirk’s bedroom, but it still feels like home, even if he can’t walk on the ground here any more easily than he ever could back on Earth. The ocean was replaced with a layer of heavy gas, which would be just as happy as the seawater to asphyxiate him, but he’s suspended in the sky as per usual.

After a lifetime alone, he’s come to terms with it—and he’s not alone here, not anymore. Back in the day he’d built himself a robot family, and those dudes are still alive and well, even if he has yet to ever defeat Sawtooth in a rap battle. Lil Seb, however, has gone to parts unknown, and Brobot exploded on Jake’s island after what Dirk understood to be some kind of mishap with uranium.

Brobot’s schematics, however, were never lost.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hal says, snapping Dirk out of his train of thought. “Can you think of a single celebrity more obnoxious than Adam fucking Sandler?”

Dirk turns his head away from looking at the window and looks at Hal instead. Hal, who now exists in physical space beside him on their bed, with billiard ball sheets draped over his metal feet. Hal, who has cameras mounted within the red anime shades that at this point are undeniably Kamina’s. Hal, who has one of his noodly fucking dryer-vent arms curled across Dirk’s stomach.

“You know...” He spends a long moment contemplating, but eventually shakes his head. “Hand to god, I can’t think of anybody who’s ever lived who can hold a candle to Sandler for that, uh. Honor.”

“Right, like.” Hal runs his fingers over Dirk’s hip, idly. For an organic human, this would in fact be an idle process, but for Hal, it’s a deliberate, conscious effort. Dirk wonders if this is really so different from his own belatedly-learned interpersonal mannerisms. Is he any better, for being made of meat? Is he any less awkward? Is there some inherent nuance to his movements that’s more fluid than Hal’s precision? “The thing about Sandler, is that he’s hardly responsible for genocide. We’re not talking about Fieri here.”

“Not that you mind talking about Fieri, apparently. At length.”

“Oh, _you’re_ one to talk.” Hal rubs his thumb at Dirk’s hip, just above the red waistband of his black trunks. “So despots aside, and just plain ol’ regular famous fuckers? Who could even challenge Sandler?”

“Maybe Carrot Top,” Dirk suggests.

“Really? Why?”

“Have you seen that guy? He’s fucking ripped.”

“I’ve robo-considered a Google images search, and I can confirm with 99.997% accuracy that Scott ‘Carrot Top’ Thompson can, in fact, be considered ripped.”

“But the real question,” Dirk counters, his body angled in towards Hal’s, “is whether or not Carrot Top would help his friend hook up with Q*bert.”

“Q*bert’s a fucking square.”

Dirk laughs, and rolls onto his side so he can slide an arm over Hal’s chassis more comfortably. His torso is warmer than his extremities, thanks to the bulk of his inner workings being housed within his chest. Granted, Dirk thinks the same argument could be made for human bodies, for the exact same reasons. Just because Hal’s organs were manufactured doesn’t make them any less functional. Probably more.

“Well, cubes _are_ his deal, but like. Damn. His mouth.”

[“Are you saying you want Q*bert to blow you?”](http://36.media.tumblr.com/fc24941ad577e239a072e83055b3b138/tumblr_inline_o65cl5JzXu1rq8to9_1280.jpg)

Dirk lets the moment hang for a while and quirks his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe I was just talking about his swearing habits.”

Hal moves his hand up to run his fingers through Dirk’s hair, to brush it away from his forehead. Dirk can feel the grip material on the underside of Hal’s fingertips as it crosses his skin. “Except I know you, and I know for fucking fact you weren’t referring to that.”

Smiling, Dirk pets along the small of Hal’s back, feeling out the rivets that follow his spine. “You know I’m all about triangles, first and foremost.”

“Hey, man. Far be it from me to tell you what kind of polygons to be into.” Hal’s voice comes from two subtle speakers, built into the underside of his chin, and Dirk’s still getting used to hearing him speak out loud. There are days they spend still communicating via instant messaging, just like it’d been for so long. Maybe it’s because Dirk’s nostalgic. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to go the effort of giving voice to his thoughts. Maybe it’s easier to type.

Maybe it seems like Hal’s still part of him, that way.

“Besides, Q*bert himself doesn’t even have angles. He just... looks like a fucking smuppet.”

“What about Pac-Man?” Hal asks. “Would you ask Pac-Man to blow you?”

“But Pac-Man’s the _bad guy_.”

Hal snorts, which is actually an audio recording of a horse snorting. “As if you’ve ever let that stop you from wanting a dude to feel you up.”

Dirk just grins. “I feel like the Pac-Man joke has to involve anal beads somehow. Right?” 

“Anal beads are hardly a joke, Dirk.”

Dirk squeezes his arm around Hal’s waist. “Adam Sandler is a joke.”

“That he is. I still can’t fucking believe that movie was allowed to exist.”

“Which one?”

“All of them, but _[Pixels](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZ7rIFGuGMk)_ specifically.”

Dirk listens to the consistent, quiet whirring of the fan in the corner of their room, and nuzzles his face against Hal’s palm. “ _Pixels_ totally has that fuckin’ kid in the aviators, and they’re embroiled in drama with aliens who have strong opinions about videogames, and found data in a time capsule or whatever. You don’t find that relatable in some way? You don’t think that touches upon the human condition?”

“I’ll touch upon your human condition.”

“Touché.” Dirk turns his head to kiss Hal’s hand. “I’m shocked you didn’t find _Chuck and Larry_ to be progressive.”

“I’m still internalizing the moral lessons I learned from _Little Nicky_ , personally.”

“Is there anything fucking scarier than the premise of _50 First Dates_ , though?” Dirk runs his foot along Hal’s calf. Metal has always felt reassuring against his skin, especially so in that it’s been worked with his own hands, meticulously and lovingly crafted into the body beside him. Maybe it’s from having Sawtooth and Squarewave around. Maybe it’s because he’s had the katana for so long. Maybe it’s because he can control failure and fractures and illness in synthetic bodies in ways he can’t repair his own. “I mean, she has to wake up for nine fucking months and wonder what the fuck is going on with—”

“Shhhhhh.” Hal puts a finger over Dirk’s lips. “I’m not even robo-capable of robo-nightmares, and that’s still a path I don’t wanna go down.”

Dirk slides his hand further down along Hal’s back, until he’s copping a feel on his shiny metal ass. He parts his lips and lets his lower lip drag across the pad of Hal’s finger before taking his fingertip between his teeth and holding it, silently.

He breathes. Hal doesn’t.

Dirk presses a kiss to Hal’s fingertip and speaks against it. “What if I wanna go down?”

“Down where?” Hal asks, with no change in inflection. “To Georgia? Yelling ‘timber’?”

“Are you deadpanning at me right now?” Dirk asks, entirely with fondness.

“Maybe. Maybe I'm just channeling Sandler. He always sounds dead inside.”

Dirk snickers. “Adam Sandler may hate Adam Sandler even more than we do.”

“And we both know a lot about self-hatred.”

“He should learn to accept himself.” Dirk runs his hand over Hal’s ass, making a point of squeezing at it, even though the metal doesn’t budge. Hardest buttock in the Pacific island jungle, tempered steel, etc. “Maybe even love himself.”

“By doing what, making out with himself?”

“Sure, yeah. I’m glad I now have [that mental image](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/143327515460/horrible-shit-that-should-not-see-the-light-of-day).” Dirk sits up, his legs kicked out to the side, and waits for Hal to sit up along with him. The servos make gentle noises as he moves; Dirk finds it as comforting as listening to a heartbeat, or maybe even more so. He didn’t have any heartbeats to listen to, growing up. (Except Minihoof. God fucking bless that little pony.)

The sky outside is darkening as clouds drift to block whatever ambient light illuminates his planet. Hal’s shades glow in complementary contrast; red falls across Dirk’s face where his cheeks are already flushed. Dirk puts one hand on the hat logo that’s built into Hal’s chest, the brightly colored metal panel that accents what would be his sternum. He lifts his other hand to settle his fingertips lightly against Hal’s jawline, his thumb coming to rest on the smooth spot that could be the corner of Hal’s mouth, if he had one.

Just like when Hal was still ‘within’ the shades, Dirk stops himself from making too many comparisons to organic human bodies. This is the form Hal has, and he’s not lesser for it. If and when he likes, Hal can start making his own adjustments to himself, with Dirk’s assistance available if he wants it or needs it. For now, though, Dirk leans in the way he’s wanted to for so long, the way he couldn’t when they were on Jane’s couch, the way he couldn’t for every evening he let himself lie down to rest his muscles while his brain kept working overtime, with his shades securely on his face, perpetually protecting his eyes.

Dirk leans in, and kisses the smooth, flat surface of Hal’s face, his lips soft on the metal where it’s warm from Hal’s internal processes. Hal’s shades glow more vividly, and Dirk knows it’s an intentional adjustment of the brightness setting.

He keeps his eyes open, eager to soak in the hue, to let the red light filter against his own orange irises. He hopes Hal can see it reflected back, somehow. It’s the closest Dirk can get to resting his own vision atop Hal’s, in an inversion of their lives up to this instant.

“I love you,” he breathes.

[ ](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/143197707670/preview-of-roboners-to-come-hope-yall-are-fuckin)

With muted whirring sounds, Hal brings his Inspector Gadget arms up to wrap around Dirk, and applies the exact amount of pressure necessary to hold him without hurting. Dirk knows it’s a calculation, and he’s grateful for the exacted caution. It would be terrifyingly easy for Hal to hurt him, physically, and he never has.

“It seems I robo-feel the same way,” Hal says.

“You can robo-feel me all you want.” Dirk kisses the rivets that mark their way across Hal’s cheek, up across the space for an eye socket. “Let’s chill out. Let’s touch each other.”

“You’ve already touched me right in my robo-soul, bro.” Hal tilts his head at just the right angle to push against Dirk’s face. “Heart eyes, motherfucker.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.” Dirk brings his arms around Hal to let his fingers rest on the flared shoulders of the Brobot chassis, designed somewhat akin to his Derse dreamer attire. “I’m so fuckin’... just _glad_ you can be with me.”

“Yo, I’ve always been with you.” Hal laughs, and Dirk could swear there’s some kind of clip of whinnying mixed into the audio file. “We used to be the same brain.”

Dirk rests his head against Hal’s shoulder and sighs, more from relief than anything approaching exasperation. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do.”

Dirk rubs at Hal’s back and kisses at his shoulder, then at the seam where his neck meets his torso, the area approximating a clavicle. “I just want to feel you next to me.”

“You’re getting awfully saccharine, man. What’s next, guzzling special stardust?”

“Okay, so here we are, and you’re suggesting that I eat things.”

Hal is already kneeling on the bed. Dirk repositions himself until he’s got one leg between Hal’s, and his other pressed close to the outside of Hal’s thigh. With how form-fitting his underwear is, there’s not much left to the imagination.

Dirk loops his arms over Hal’s shoulders, and frots his erection against Hal’s thigh. The cotton/spandex is just enough to keep him from chafing, without blocking much sensation. The fabric moves with his rocking and results in pleasant, soft shifting noises.

“You’re eager,” Hal notes, his hands once again in Dirk’s hair, cradling the back of his head and sifting through the strands.

Dirk huffs a laugh. “I want you.”

[ ](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/143327094020/illustration-for-this-fic-probably-refers-to)

“You’re honest.”

“Not a lot of people accuse me of that.” Dirk gets a grip on Hal’s shoulders and uses the leverage to support himself as he thrusts. He lets out a satisfied sigh. “But yeah, I mean. It’s the truth.”

There’s a difficult moment that passes almost instantaneously. They’ve been through the same logic chains before: the repartee of self-loathing and worthlessness, the utter conviction of their own undesirability, the effort it takes to eschew destructive fixations and allow themselves to move past it, to let go of the itching need to rehash negativity. There’s no need to beat a dead horse.

Not when they could be beating off, at least.

Hal adjusts the position of his head and applies the faintest pressure to the back of Dirk’s head, gently, carefully drawing him closer until Dirk’s kissing his face again, with his eyes closed this time. Dirk rolls his hips, needy but patient, until there’s a small wet spot gathering in the stretched fabric where it tugs tight across his glans. 

“Please,” Dirk begs, gasping. “God, please, let me go down on you.”

“Don’t you want to get off?” Hal asks, skeptical. “Why bother with me?”

Dirk kisses Hal’s cheek, in the spot just below the shades, where he knows one half of the binaural microphone is located. “Why has anyone in the history of fucking ever bothered to fellate a strap-on?”

“Presumably because they’re getting something out of it.”

“I _would_ get a lot out of it,” Dirk confirms, again lowering his chin to rest on Hal’s shoulder and hugging him tightly. “But it’s because I want to help you feel validated.”

Hal continues to play with Dirk’s hair. It’s a lot to robo-consider, with a borrowed body that dealt a lot of damage and caused human injury in flashes of jealousy and resentment, in a form that’s been reconstructed as some sort of Theseus’ Anbroid situation, with new materials but the same pilot. He doesn’t know how much Dirk knows, but with Hal at last at home in Dirk’s apartment, and with the amount of emotional intimacy taking place on LOMAX and LOPAN when crypts and tombs are out of the picture, Hal is ready to set the guilt aside for a while, at least, Asimov be damned. He was a human being long before he was fucking glasses, but maybe someone should be consulting Tilden’s laws first, anyway, before passing judgement.

When he rationalizes it, it’s tough to cede anything to the anxiety and doubt, because the facts line up in his favor. Dirk cares. Of _course_ he cares. Dirk cared when he rewrote the code enough that Hal could choose his own chumhandle and direct his own dialogues. Dirk cared when he spent an entire birthday party hanging out primarily with him, instead of with their three organic friends. Dirk cared when he salvaged enough supplies to complete in a week a project that originally took months, several years ago. Dirk cared when he granted half of his twin mattress to metal heavy enough to leave a permanent indentation in the structure, when even still, neither of them can sleep. Dirk cared when he spent a full day with the wardrobifier and alchemiter, sifting through combinations that Hal approved of enough to count as his own outfits.

Dirk cared when he finalized the form with a Red Hat, without any withdrawal of his claim upon embodying the Blue Leagues.

If any of it’s been for selfish gratification, it’s only in that they’ve both known nothing but loneliness their entire life.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want,” Dirk says, the words spoken softly to Hal’s shoulder. “You’re not disappointing me.”

Hal tucks his chin against Dirk’s shoulder, his speech muffled now that the speakers are letting sound out onto his skin. “I’d be disappointing myself if I didn’t even try.”

Dirk shakes his head and holds him securely. “It’s okay.”

“I want to, though.”

“Are you sure?” Dirk runs his fingers along the sculpted metal of Hal’s hair, careful not to nick himself on the sharp edges. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m pressuring you.”

“You’re not, man.” Hal lets his hands rest on Dirk’s upper back, petting along his shoulder blades. “You were just trying to flirt. It’s all good.”

Dirk nods, his cheek next to Hal’s. “Okay. Okay, good.”

Hal nudges his face against Dirk’s neck, his nose pressed to the spot along Dirk’s jaw, just beneath and behind the shell of his ear. Dirk shudders and clenches his thighs around Hal’s leg.

It doesn’t take long for them to pick up where they’d left off, with even more enthusiasm for being on the same page, with the air cleared. Dirk kisses Hal’s face, and Hal presses back just enough for there to be a satisfying amount of resistance. Neither of them has any interest in Hal acting as a particularly brittle blow-up doll.

Hal slides his hands down to cop a feel on Dirk’s ass and to support him as he grinds on Hal’s thigh. The wet spot on Dirk’s trunks is even more apparent, and hardly a surprise with how much Dirk’s gotten into a rhythm.

“Okay,” Dirk sighs, his hips finally stilling. “Okay, if uh. You can get on top of me if you want.”

“Should I sit on your face?” Hal asks.

Dirk pulls back enough to make the equivalent of eye contact. He smirks, until he can’t keep himself from grinning with teeth. “I mean, it worked out last time, didn’t it?”

“We might need to put Triple D back on for me to get in the mood, if I’m being honest.”

“We still have Jane’s DVDs, if you’re serious.”

“I’m not, but duly noted. For now, I’ll settle for watching low-res clips of Fieri consuming fried cheese in another robo-window while you and I get it on.”

“Oh my god, and I thought I was hard before.” Dirk moves away from Hal’s lap and lies down on their bed, his head on a pillow and mere inches away from the smuppet and hat pile as it rises up next to the mattress. “You know exactly which buttons to push. Goddamn.”

“Pushing buttons is what I’m all about. Beep fuckin’ boop.”

Dirk smiles up at him with a level of fondness that Hal isn’t sure he’s ever had aimed in his direction until now. Dirk’s cheeks are flushed, and his bangs are mussed, and he’s kind of sweaty. Hal watches Dirk’s eyes track his movements as he shifts on the bed, too, until he’s kneeling and hovering just above Dirk’s mouth, his knees approaching the edge of the mattress.

The servos whirr until Hal’s at exactly the right height. His balance is impeccable; there’s nothing built within him that will get tired or cramped or ever feel a need to fidget or stretch. He looks at Dirk, who’s still smiling, but has stopped joking about centuries-dead celebrities.

“You ready?” Dirk asks.

In a fraction of a second, Hal runs through the list of sarcastic responses he could reply with. That he was built ready, or that his engine is revved, or maybe just an audio clip of motherfucking Spongebob engaged in employment-related motivational chanting.

Dirk looks handsome, and just the slightest bit shy. Hal makes a decision.

“Yeah, go for it.”

Dirk closes his eyes and sticks his tongue out, probably a little too far, and licks across the smooth metal surface of Hal’s crotch. There’s nothing particularly notable about the spot, but the metal between his legs is cooler than the sections near his chest and head. Dirk presses his lips to him and sucks at him, leaving saliva on the surface. It reminds him, vaguely, of the times he’s tongued the top of a can to get every trace of soda off it, too hungry to forego any scraps of sugar, but Hal’s posing zero risk of cutting his mouth in any way. Besides, the soda cans never appreciated it.

Hal remains utterly still as Dirk runs his tongue over him, rightly concerned about causing him discomfort with the sheer weight of his chassis. Dirk brings his hands up to touch Hal, his left hand curled over the top of his thigh, and his right gradually sliding up along his hip, up towards his chest. When Dirk tries to pull him closer, Hal shifts with sharp precision, just enough to settle himself on Dirk’s tongue the way Dirk wants.

[ ](http://freakyhumanshit.tumblr.com/post/143198169435/here-is-also-dirk-making-out-w-some-fucking)

“Are you recording this?” Dirk asks, his eyes half-lidded, staring up at Hal as he licks between his legs.

“Just the way I normally do for visual input. Routine archival backup data, that sort of thing.”

Dirk sucks at the metal surface for a few seconds, his gaze locked on Hal’s glowing red shades. The noises are particularly wet, for how much this is a performative effort, for how theatrical it has to be when Hal has nothing that approximates nerve endings.

“You wanna film us?” He stops to lick his lips, and bites his lower lip before speaking again. “High-def this sticky mess?”

“Yeah.” Something changes in the way the light is configured within Hal’s shades, enough to indicate to Dirk that this shit is definitely being saved for posterity. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“ _You_ sound good.”

“Do I?”

Dirk nods, with his eyes closed, with his lips sealed against metal.

“I bet I could sound better.”

Hal sorts through years of information, each audio clip organized by both a rigorously efficient set of informative attributes, and Hal’s own personally identifiable tags, which are less effective but far more entertaining. He evaluates thousands of his favorite files and queues several of them up all in the time it takes for Dirk to trace his tongue once in a circle. 

Hal moans.

Dirk’s eyes fly open, his heart racing. He looks up at Hal, amused and aroused. “Which one was that?”

“That one,” Hal clarifies, “was from that one afternoon you spent watching a fuckload of rimming videos and fingering yourself until your wrist got tired.”

“Mmm, I like where this is going.” Dirk closes his eyes again and starts flicking his tongue against Hal. The video captures it all at a ridiculously faithful frame rate. Running the recording uses processing power Hal wouldn’t normally allocate to such a task, but he _wants_ to run hot.

Hal reaches behind himself with both hands. Without elbows, he has no need to worry about being uncomfortable with the angle, and can easily get one hand on Dirk’s inner thigh and the other pressing gently to the curve of his erection within his trunks as he strains against the fabric. Dirk lets out a heated huff of breath that leaves fog on the metal.

Hal moans again. 

Dirk speaks while mouthing at Hal’s crotch. “What about that one?”

“That’s from the time you dedicated an entire day to edging yourself, and is specifically from the sixth time you had to take your hand off your dick before it was too late to go back.”

Dirk contentedly sighs his approval, and lifts his hips towards Hal’s hands. Hal feels him up, grateful that he can feel him at all.

“Did you wanna move your hips, too?” Dirk suggests.

“Only if you think it won’t be too much.”

Dirk rubs his palm along Hal’s thigh, reassuringly. “I trust you.”

“Not a lot of people tell me that, either,” Hal jokes. “We are two peas in a fucking pod.”

“What if I made a peepo reference right now?”

“Then I would humbly request you have the decency to change the topic back to Sandler’s filmography.”

“Fair enough.”

Hal begins to rock his hips in complete synchronization with each stroke of his hands across Dirk’s dick. The grip-material of his fingertips catches just enough on the fabric to keep from sliding right off. While his hands don’t vibrate in a traditional sense, he’s able to shake his wrists in ways that an organic human body could not, with no chance of aggravating anyone’s robotics-related, proprietary-tiny-screwdriver-induced carpal tunnel. Hal moves one hand between Dirk’s legs to press his manually buzzing fingertip against Dirk’s taint, and keeps his other hand crossing over his cock, his thumb and fingers running along the sides.

Dirk sucks and slurps on the smooth surface, increasingly engaged with the sound effects he’s making. Occasionally he opens his eyes and stares up at Hal, very well aware that he’s on camera, and lets out pleasured noises that result from Hal’s efforts on his dick as well as his genuine enjoyment of eating out Hal. It’s a world of difference from going down on a pair of shades, and though he wouldn’t trade that experience for anything, he’s relieved he can give him head in earnest. He’s gratified to have Hal’s thighs pressed close to his chin, the same way anyone else would, in the same situation. 

But anyone else would be tired by now. Hal is consistent and sure, steadily maintaining both his posture and the movements of his own hands.

“I wish I could make—” Dirk starts, before thinking better of it and rephrasing. “I want to make you come. I want you to come on my face.”

“This is a thing for you, isn’t it?” Hal teases, speeding up his stroking. “Oh, how the turntables.”

Dirk keeps his eyes closed and goes faster, licking at his own saliva and sloppily speaking against Hal’s chassis. “Fuck, god, fucking do it. Fucking come on my tongue, just—”

“Jesus.”

Dirk lifts his chin in time with Hal’s rocking and laps at him as quickly as he can. Hal takes a cue from this and moves his hands faster, too, until the whirring of his internal mechanisms could put the noise from any of Dirk’s toys to total shame. He pulses two fingertips against Dirk’s taint, the heel of his palm against his balls, and his other hand rubbing vigorously and buzzing along his dick, all through the taut fabric of his trunks.

Hal starts moaning, louder than before, and there’s something different about the audio file that Dirk can’t place. Dirk digs his fingers into Hal’s thighs, which doesn’t do much when there’s little give to the chassis, but holds him close to his face all the same. The frantic flicking of his own tongue, coupled with Hal’s enthusiastic response and the motions of his hips, all help to push him over the edge when Hal’s fingertips start stimulating his dick right at the head.

Dirk comes in his underwear, with his toes flexing into the billiard sheets, a few inches away from their bedroom wall. He keeps his tongue going until Hal stops making any vocalized sounds, and then pulls off, breathless, exhausted.

“What was the last clip from?” Dirk asks, with his face flushed, with swollen lips and a mess between his legs. “I didn’t recognize it.”

Hal climbs off Dirk and settles in beside him before answering. “That one was just from me.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Really?” Dirk laughs, taken aback. “Fucking hot, dude. I didn’t know you could do that.”

“I couldn’t. I scripted it while you were eating me out.”

“Holy shit.” Dirk brings his hands to his face to rub at his eyes, embarrassed. “Well, goddamn. Check out my talented, rad as hell robot lover.”

“Shitting fuck, I’m glad I got that last line while the cameras were still rolling.” Hal leans his face over Dirk’s, where Dirk’s still giddy from orgasm and blushing self-consciously. “Got any other quotable quotes for our studio audience?”

Dirk laughs again and peeks at Hal through his fingers. “I thought of somebody else who sucks.”

“Oh, besides you?”

Dirk sticks his tongue out.

“Okay, yeah, who?”

“Dr. Phil. Dr. Phil is a fucking asshole.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally.”

“As tragic as the destruction of humanity was, maybe it was all worth it for taking out Dr. Phil.” Dirk lifts his head enough to kiss Hal, soft and lingering, before speaking. “Anyway, I am officially disgusting, and—”

“No argument from me.”

“ _And_ I’m gonna go take a shower. Are you waterproof enough to join me?”

“Probably, if I can dick around near the ocean.”

“All of our dicking around up until recently has been near the ocean, yo.” 

“True. Should I stop recording?”

Dirk grins at Hal, his smile filling the frame. “Not yet.”

Hal reaches for Dirk’s face and zooms in as he brushes his bangs out of his eyes. “All right, before we cut to some bullshit commercial break. Any last words?”

“Yeah.” Dirk cups Hal’s face with both of his hands, and beams at him. “You’re my favorite.”

 

# ROBO-END

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 


End file.
